


Inshallah

by turntechGodtier



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turntechGodtier/pseuds/turntechGodtier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard being Muslim.  It's hard, and no one understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One & Two

 You've learnt to keep your headphones on while on the subway. Quiet enough to hear if anyone's about to start shit, but loud enough to drown out the hateful things. Maybe your head bobs just enough to disarm people, the language you're starting to forget echoing in your ears over the fearful glances as you flip the page in your book of surahs (translated helpfully in three languages; helps you keep everything where it should be in your brain).

It's not like you're doing anything illegal, you tell yourself as the cop that gets on gives you A Look. Yeah, this is New York. But it's a free country, and although you know these lines by heart at this point, it's still nice to brush up once in a while. You've always liked words. Words often held much more than pictures for you, and although you're terrible at making them yourself, it's still possible to be a connoisseur of them, or so you tell yourself as you flip another page.

It's been about ten years since you moved from a little hamlet outside Ankara. It's been hard since then, but everyone likes a cheerful face, and you've made it a point to have one whenever anyone speaks to you. There are days when you wonder if you're maybe bottling everything up, but you push those thoughts aside and remember how fortunate you still are; you have most of your family left, you're getting decent grades, and you've even made a few friends in that time.

Looking up as your stop is called, you scramble for the door, barely making it past before they're shut and the train starts moving again. _Motherfuckin' trains,_ is all you can think in mild irritation as you head up the stairs, trying to remember if you packed all of your homework. _Motherfuckin' Mondays..._

 

\---part two---

 

Your name is Gamzee Makara. You're twenty-one years old, going on twelve, if anyone asks your mother (Fortunately, very few people do; her English isn't spectacular, and there's no motherfucking way you're going to translate _that_ for people), and you attend one of the many community colleges in New York City. You're about six-foot-two, around a hundred forty pounds (you're a skinny bastard), and your curly hair falls in your face in such a way that apparently makes you irresistible to women, not that you particularly care. It hides your rather intense violet-blue eyes, a trait your little sisters share with you, and really, that's just fine with you; you catch enough shit as it is from people for acting like a pothead, and in high school, it was one less thing for them to make fun of.

You get decent enough grades, and your classmates like you well enough, you suppose, but you've connected with very few of them on any real level. You haven't declared a major yet, but that's okay, because you have no clue what the hell you want to do with yourself anyway, so majors are kind of pointless at this point. Wandering into the shithole your school calls a cafeteria, you plop next to the tiniest kid in the entire school - your self-proclaimed "best friend."

"Sup, brother?" you greet him cheerfully from the opposite corner of the table.

"Eat shit and die," comes the predictable response. You're used to this from Karkat at this point. He's a prickly bastard, to be sure, but you like him a lot for some reason. Well, no, scratch that, you know the exact reason - he hates your guts (or so he says), but he hates everyone's guts. It's an equal-opportunity sort of rage, directed at everyone and no one in particular, and it's refreshing in a masochistic sort of way.

"Already had lunch, motherfucker," you answer, the obscene addition something of an in-joke you couldn't quite shake from your early days in the United States. You vaguely remember being about twelve the time you heard it on some movie your parents were watching. Unaware of its connotations, you'd casually repeated it at school the next day, earning yourself a detention and an angry call home, not to mention The Belt upon your return. You had made a very careful point not to repeat it in front of adults after that.

You can practically smell the fury radiating off Karkat's pinched, underfed frame. "It's an expression, wiseass, now are you here for a fucking reason, or are you just trying to piss me off again?" You can't help but laugh, brushing your hair from your face as you push a paper bag toward him.

"Here, I think you dropped five kilos since yesterday," you tease, the carefully prepared lunch straight from Mother's Kitchen. Karkat rolls his eyes, perpetually annoyed with your attempts to be friendly, but he takes it anyway, and you wonder again what sort of shitty situation he has to be in to take food even from you.

"What the fuck ever, Makara, I don't need or want your pity party," he snaps in that growly, irritated voice. You wonder if he's a closet smoker. He never smells of tobacco, but you know old men with prettier voices than him.

"Yeah yeah, I got'cha brother." You're willing to indulge his irritation for a few minutes of real socialisation, at any rate. You have a few minutes to kill, at any rate, and you may as well get your kicks for the day, listening to Vantas rage at his algebra homework. The conversation is usually light, and full of expletives, so it's a bit of a surprise when he looks up from the worksheet, his own oddly-colored eyes full of something you'd almost call shyness if you didn't know any better.

"So I know you don't do anything on Fridays," he starts, and you can feel your heart stop, knowing what he's going to ask, an odd sort of disappointment in the back of your thoughts. "And I don't fucking understand a word of this shit. Any chance I could hit up a study buddy?" Although you smile at him, it's a little disappointed, and going out on a limb, you decide to just be blunt.

"Sorry brother. Got prayers at the mosque that day," and as soon as that word leaves your mouth, you can almost feel him judging you.

"Whatever, then, maybe Saturday," he mutters, too uptight to be embarrassed as he goes back to the worksheet, stabbing at it with his pencil like it had done him great personal injury.

"Maybe," you answer, standing and pulling your bag back onto your shoulder. "You got my number, at any rate." Your class was going to start without you at this rate, and the teacher already had this weird beef with you. With a sigh, you set off for Lit 2, confused as to why you turned down Karkat's offer. Well, you knew exactly why you did. You didn't want to break your mother's heart twice.

It's hard, being Muslim, you decide. It's hard, and no one understands.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note One: A surah (plural surahs) is a book of Islamic prayers. I may be drawing entirely the wrong parallels here, but the impression I got from my Muslim friend (who is graciously looking over this to make sure I don’t royally screw this up) is that it’s similar to a Christian carrying a book of Psalms.
> 
> Note Two: I have never been to New York City. I have been on the T/Mass-Trans in Boston, and the BART and CAL Trains in California. Both of them gave you about two tenths of a second to GTFO that line before they started moving again. All three smelled like piss and cheap air freshener. This is what a New York subway is like to me until I see otherwise.
> 
> Note Three: Everyone in Homestuck knows that “Gamze/Gamzee” is a Turkish name meaning “dimple.” Another good friend of mine, though, informed me that “makara” is a Turkish word meaning “a role” or “a part in a performance.” Ergo, Gamzee and his family are Turkish. More on this in later parts.
> 
> Note Four: Islamophobia is a real thing, for my readers not in the United States, and it’s ridiculous in some parts of the country. The subject matter in this story, specifically focusing on this aspect of American attitude, is more based on what I see in White Bread Midwest, where WASPs are the mainstay sort of people, and how I’ve seen people react to Muslims in their comfort zone.
> 
> Note Five: One of my favorite teachers in high school was a Sufi Muslim woman, and I adored her. She was very open with her beliefs with us, and it created a wonderful atmosphere of tolerance and mutual understanding. It is Madame Makawe’s Islam, along with my pen pal’s Islam, that forms the basis of Gamzee’s beliefs, as well as how strong he is in them.
> 
> Note Six: At one point in his Formspring, Andrew Hussie did, at one point, answer a question about canon!Gamzee’s reaction to ICP. The comparison he drew was if a Muslim saw a video on YouTube parodying Mohammed, and that analogy really stuck with me as I continued with the series, and began writing for Gamzee.
> 
> Note Seven: ”Inshallah” is a phrase meaning “God willing,” “If God wills it,” something to that effect.
> 
> Note Eight: He is totally listening to Tarkan on the subway.


	2. Chapter 2

Lips, pressed against yours. It's the first thing you really process, followed closely by the knowledge that this has to be a dream. There's no way this is happening again in reality, and for a split second, it makes your heart ache.

But the soft sound of laughter cuts through it, along with gentle touches to your cheeks, your nose, your neck and shoulders. You wonder when your shirt vanished, but dismiss it as unimportant as you melt a little when you're kissed again.

As you open your eyes, soft brown greets you, more the color of old rust than anything else, and Tavros is smiling at you. It's such a disarming expression. You've never met anyone quite as innocent as him. He's unblemished and naive and _perfect_ , and you wonder sometimes if he even has the capacity for dislike, let alone hate.

"Gamzee," he murmurs, dozy and languid against your lips, "you're thinking too much again." And as his hands explore your thin frame, you have to agree, a chuckle falling from your throat as he presses butterfly kisses to it.

"Say it again," he murmurs a moment later, and you feel your heart flutter in your chest. They're _your_ words, and out of everyone you know, _he_ wants to hear them.

" _Aşkım_ ," you whisper, the smile on your face widening as your breath tickles his cheek. " _Güzelim, tatlım..."_ They're just little sweet-nothings, a reminder that together you might not be perfect, but it doesn't matter. He's never once asked what the words mean. There's no need to.

And as suddenly as the dream starts, it's over, leaving you staring at the ceiling with your eyes burning. The clock on the dresser reads 4:47. Staring for a long moment, you sigh before sitting up. No way you're getting back to sleep now, may as well get dressed for work early. _'It's gonna be a long motherfuckin' day'_ you think, rubbing your eyes.

It's 7:56 as you walk into work at some nameless, faceless corporate chain, mug of tea clutched almost possessively in your hands. You remember with a slight smirk the time one of your coworkers decided to try a sip of the tea you drank every morning. "Take the roof off your mouth, brother," you tried to warn him. Poor bastard. He hadn't looked you in the eye since then, eying your travel mug with a certain distrust that never failed to make you laugh.

"Makara, you're early," your boss calls, a smile on her face. You've always liked Kanaya, and not because she gave you a job when she wasn't hiring. It had been right after another fight with your father. You'd hopped on the subway, cranked your headphones up, and sat in the corner, hoping your key would still work when you got home. There are over eight million people in New York City, and it happened to be an unassuming woman with closely-cut brown hair that sat next to you with a sigh, a smile, and an offer of an anonymous ear. 'You look down,' she'd said. 'Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest.'

Granted, when you got a call for an interview, that stranger on the train was a lot less anonymous when she ended up being your hiring manager.

"I figured, I was up, may as well see if I can help," you call back to her, dropping your coat on one of the break room chairs and taking a healthy swig of your tea. You know that look in her eye, though; she knows something's up, and you know she has every intention of grilling you until you spill the proverbial beans. You decide to one-up her for once. Opening up every now and then is oddly therapeutic, you decide.

"Look." And almost instantly, she's put the box in her hand down; there's about four hundred boxes to get unpacked over the next two days, but in an odd twist, her employees' well-being is more important to her than merchandise stocking. "Just... had a dream about shit that went down a long time ago," you murmur, and she nods knowingly. _'She has no idea,'_ you think to yourself, but you appreciate that she cares nonetheless. "Woke up, couldn't go back to sleep, so I just... came in early." You're glad when she smiles and puts a hand on your shoulder.

"Go clock in, Gam," she says as she squeezes gently. "There's a lot of crap to put out for little old ladies to buy, and God knows I could use the help." You're wrist-deep in the first box of ugly hats when you decide that you don't just have a good boss. You have a good friend, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note one: The Turkish endearments (helpfully provided by Yahoo!Answers) are little phrases that mean things like “My love,” “my beautiful one,” and “my sweet one.”
> 
> Note two: As I mentioned in another post, yes, there are the gay boys in this. However, to imply that gay men, gay women, gay Muslims, gay Christians, or gay Martians with blue polka-dots don’t exist is stupid. The fact that Tavros and Gamzee had a “thing” is actually integral to the plot I’ve got worked out, and it’s not just a gratuitous ship (although I will admit, it is one of my favorites). I understand that a lot of things are ruined for people by gratuitous gayness, but I’ll try and keep this tasteful.
> 
> Note three: The Turks are one of the largest consumers of tea in the world (consuming more than Great Britain, by almost a kilo per person per year). At one point, Wikipedia told me they were the largest consumers, but this apparently has changed, as the current list has them at fourth. (As an aside, the tea Gamzee is drinking is a combination of maté and Russian gunpowder green teas, both of which carry a massive caffeine kick. That shit can, and will, take the roof off your mouth if you aren’t used to it.)
> 
> Note four: The population of New York is current as of the 2010 Census, which places it at 8.1 million-some people.
> 
> Note five: Kanaya kind of came in by accident in this, to be honest. She was originally going to be just some nameless, faceless boss figure, but I figured if it’s a canon Homestuck character, I’ll be able to make myself work with her more as the story progresses.


	3. Chapter 3

A good nine and a half hours later, you struggle with the key in your apartment door, swearing under your breath until the damn thing finally unlocks. You keep asking the landlord to replace it, but he's a lazy bastard who has an ardent dislike of every one of his tenants.

The second you have the door open, there's a screaming face at your knees, a joyous "Abi!" echoing off the entryway. Laughing as you reach down to pick up your littlest sister, you rub noses with her, making her giggle as the middle child makes her own way around the corner. Pulling Aradia into a one-armed hug, you struggle to keep Nepeta from falling from your arms.

"Did you two behave when I was at work?" you ask, knowing the answer would be a definitive 'yes.' You love your little sisters. Considering everything that's happened with your clusterfuck of a family, they've been the only constant happy thing in your life. 'The stars and the moon to me,' is what you tell them on the nights your mother works late, tucking Nepeta in after a third bedtime story.

Handing Nepeta to Aradia, you plop on the couch, finding the fatigue in your legs to be the rather satisfying kind that only comes after properly working your frustrations out through lifting heavy things, or punching someone in the face. That poor mannequin would never be the same, but in your defence, it hit you first when it fell over; it was a natural reaction to punch it in its plastic face.

Almost immediately, Nepeta is crawling into your lap, demanding to watch cartoons with Abi until mommy comes home. You know she knows you're worn out, but you appreciate her affection nonetheless. It's some of the only real, unconditional love you've ever had. But as soon as the Powerpuff Girls start flying around, you feel a tap on your shoulder, Aradia biting her lip as she stands behind the couch. "Can I talk to you?" she asks quietly.

Assuring Nepeta you'll be back to watch Mojo Jojo get beaten up, you follow Aradia into the kitchen, frowning as she worries the hem of her t-shirt. For most people, the gesture would mean nothing. But as you watch Aradia fidget, you know something's seriously up, and you wonder if she's been getting bullied in high school again.

But before you can ask what's wrong, she's speaking, always in that soft tone of hers. It always kind of worried you, how quiet she was. But she'd always had a sort of strength under the silence that few people saw until it was too late, and it was one of the things you liked best about Aradia.

"I want to wear the hijab," she murmurs, and the statement takes you aback a little. Your family's always been pretty in the middle about your religion, with your father taking a much harder approach toward the family's faith. Since he'd passed, though... Sighing, you put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze reassuringly, trying to smile. “Whatever you want, sister. We'll go fabric shopping tomorrow, okay?” Her smile reassures you a little, but you know it will be hard. People aren't exactly forgiving where she attends, and it seems to you that this will just add fuel to the fire. But Nepeta's yelling for you again, and you push the sick feeling in your stomach aside to finish some cartoons with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note One: If you've never punched a mannequin in the face, it's actually really satisfying.
> 
> Note Two: I know Aradia and Nepeta are kind of strange choices for his siblings, but I really wanted canon characters to work with, especially ones I had never written before. I really enjoy Aradia's quiet sort of strength that she has, and Nepeta has always been endearingly cute to me. There wasn't any real logic in how I picked the characters; they just seemed right.
> 
> Note Three: The hijab, for anyone not aware, is the headscarf some Muslim women wear. It's traditionally worn when a girl starts puberty, and is worn as a way to show modesty in how one dresses. When I worked at the fabric store, we had Muslim women come in a lot to look at fabric to make them, and honestly, I think they are very pretty pieces of clothing. The decision to wear it in moderate to liberal Muslim families (especially here in the United States) can be a point of contention, as oftentimes the older, more traditional parents will want their daughters to wear it, and the daughters will want to fit in more readily. I remember particularly in middle school (unrelated, but directly after the events of 9/11/2001), one girl came in without her hijab, and it was a VERY marked difference. It was because she was afraid of being targeted for such an obvious display of her faith.
> 
> Note Four: "Abi" is a name used to refer to one's older siblings in Turkish. A good friend of mine explained all of them to me once, but it was very late at night, as we have a seven-hour time difference, and when I can get in touch with her again, I will update again with more details on the various names and endearments.


	4. Update and an apology

Hey guys!  
I want to thank everyone that's been reading Inshallah so far, your comments and kudos are what keep me going.  
Unfortunately, right now, the muse to write this story is kind of dead, so I plan on putting it on a hiatus. I have a lot of things going on right now in my life, not the least of which is my attempt to find a job. Between that and some of my other projects, my creativity has, unfortunately, been limited to the short pieces I've been putting up (and to the people that are reading those, again, thank you so much; its your comments and critique that continue to encourage me to write, and to improve as a writer).

For those of you that are curious, my Other Projects are actually something some of you might be able to come see in a few months!  
I am the head costumer for an Ancestors group that's going to be debuted at Anime Boston on Easter Weekend (Saturday specifically), and making those is eating up a LOT of my time. However, since I'm working as hard as I am on these cosplays, I want to personally invite the people reading this who are attending the convention to come find us and say hello. I personally will be wearing the Summoner, but we have all twelve of us in our group, and we are the official correspondents for the [Can Town Project](http://cantownproject.tumblr.com) food drive going on at this particular convention (not that I'm plugging our charity cause or anything). So if you're attending Anime Boston, come say hi to me!

That being said, I can't really guarantee when Inshallah will update next, and I want to extend my apologies. I have the plot planned out, but actually getting it into words is proving a lot harder than I'd anticipated, so the story is currently on hold. Stay tuned, though, readers, because writing is my way of venting things, and getting the pent-up stress and ideas out of my system, so you will see smaller short pieces such as Fly, Relinquish, and the Untitled piece I put up a while ago. I think that these shorter bursts of writing are more my strong suit anyway, but I digress.

The Too Long, Didn't Read version is this: My name is Dave, I am stressed, and this story is on hold until some of that stress goes away, which may be as soon as next week, or as long as April, but in the meantime, keep watching my page for more short pieces.

Thanks again, guys, for reading and supporting this story, and I hope you all have a fantastic new year!


End file.
